Mother Hen
by candyflavordlies
Summary: It will never be said aloud, under penalty of death, but Napoleon Solo is every bit a Mother Hen. He's always giving "tips". On the surface, it's a way for him to show off, to be the superior one and for that, he's a bit of cad, but for the other part, the part where he fusses over them, Gabriella Teller absolutely loves him.


**Mother Hen**

It will never be said aloud, under penalty of death, but Napoleon Solo is every bit a Mother Hen. He's always giving "tips" - how to properly pick a lock or disable an alarm or, well you name it and he's teaching them some variation. On the surface, it's a way for him to show off, to be the superior one and for that, he's a bit of cad, but for the other part, the part where he fusses over them, Gabriella Teller absolutely loves him.

"How far are we?"

"Keep your eyes on the road Gaby. Take your next left. And stay within the speed limit. Don't want to draw attention." He turns back to Illya, who is slumping over, sliding down the black leather interior.

"You really lived up to your name, Peril. Who else alive today can say they've been shot by a crossbow?"

"Is better than bullet. Does not travel."

"Doesn't come out easy either. We'll get you the good stuff before we start." Illya offers a silent nod before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. In the rearview mirror, she can see the tension in his jaw and around his eyes and in the clenched first resting on his knee. Solo is glancing casually out the window, his pistol nestled between the door and his thigh. To anyone on the outside, they're a couple of friends, one tired or maybe even drunk.

When they turn the corner to their hotel, Solo instructs her to pull over.

"You with me, Peril?" Illya's face can only be described as grumpy as he meets his partner's eyes. "You're not going to like this but we need to get your jacket off."

* * *

They walk through the hotel lobby, Illya's jacked draped carefully over the metal rod. Gaby leads the way while Napoleon serves as a buffer between them and the prying eyes and jostling bodies of the other hotel guest. The moment they step into the room, the roles shift and Gaby is the one calling the shots. She grabs one of the black bath towels from the bathroom to cover a dining chair.

"Illya, sit." Gaby has learned that the Russian giant responds well to her commands when he is injured. He doesn't like small talk and pleasantries, so she doesn't bother with them. She looks to her other partner.

"Nurse?"

"Stuck. She won't the be here until after midnight."

"Well, then, медведь, we will have to take a look." She pours him a generous glass of vodka. Solo is already rolling up his sleeves and digging through the first aid kit. Gaby grabs the scissors. From just below the collar of Illya's dark gray tee, she begins to cut away the fabric. It doesn't take long before she feels the areas where his blood is seeping through.

"It is not too bad, meine liebste." Illya grunts his disagreement, head heavy against the back of the chair. Gaby looks to the American, both a little weary. "I don't think we should remove it. Not yet." She amends when his eyes slide to hers.

She's been cutting slowly but now the scissors rest near the exit wound. Two snips and a sharp gasp and his chest is exposed. The arrow protrudes inches below his shoulder. It's thinner than she first thought, like a straw, perhaps less. The head is covered in blood, the metal tip glistening red in the low light of the hotel room. His left side is stained like rust, the color of drying blood. A slow dribble of fresh blood trickles, creeping to meet the waistband of his slacks. Gaby chews her bottom lip.

"It is not so good." She wrings a cloth and begins cleaning the injury.

"You should be more careful."

"You sound like Cowboy." He is surprisingly steady.

"He is not always wrong."

"Why, thank you Gabriella!" Solo pipes up from the bathroom.

"His ego will get too big."

"I can hear you." He sits across from the other agents, watching Gaby work with the same care and precision she applies to her precious cars, watching Illya's hand on the armrest, the clenching and unclenching in carefully measured intervals. When she's done, Gaby fashions a sling from one of her scarves. They all mourn the loss of the expensive fabric that will join most of Illya's outfit and Solo's shirt and jacket in a bloodstained pile.

Gently, they work to cradle his arm against his chest and Gaby uses the sling to secure it in place. Illya's breathing is jagged and he leans forward.

"Do you need a bucket, Peril?"

"I will kill him." He says it just loud enough for the American to hear. Napoleon smirks and flicks open a copy of today's newspaper.

"When you are better." Gaby runs her hand through his hair affectionately. "For now you will rest."

Gaby beings to clean up, flitting in and out of his field of vision. His shoulder alternates between a searing pain and a deep, dull, persistent ache, neither of which he can escape. He struggles to hold onto something, anything, in this too quiet hotel room.

"42." Illya nods his head in thanks.

He counts down in segments, breaking minutes into pieces and putting them back together when he needs them.

When he comes back to himself, a small woman kneels in front him. She has on gloves and she is messing with something, a bolt cutter, he realizes belatedly. He scans the room quickly but his partners aren't there. He pulls away from her, his guard immediately up. He continues looking for clues, signs of a struggle, but nothing looks out of place.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Where is Solo?"

"I asked him to wait outside. This is going to hurt."

"Bring him."

"Can I at least give you something for the pain?" His face is blank and yet, there's a threat there. The paramedic leaves, but not before muttering a few choice words. Solo appears shortly after, a soft smile on his face.

"Alright comrade?" He says it in his worst Russian accent with his hands tucked into the pockets of carefully creased slacks.

"Not with this soil beneath my feet." Illya fumbles in his mother tongue.

"What is soil to birds?" Solo answers in German.

Illya nods, shoulders relaxing a fraction. They are safe for now. "Can I send her back in? You're bleeding all over the furniture." The Russian giant waves him off, as if it's no big deal. He, in turn, motions the disgruntled medical worker back in.

This time, Solo stays.

* * *

Illya had passed out towards the end, though he'd never admit to it and his friends will never bring it up. He is awake now, but remains still, cataloging his body and his surroundings. He's on his back, in a bed, in his underclothes, under too many blankets, not alone. His good arm is… _woven_ between two petite legs, familiar in different circumstances but familiar all the same. Gaby is sleeping, propped up on pillows and sitting against the headboard. His arm is also locked between hers, though he feels her small hand resting against his palm reassuringly. He squeezes gently and tilts his head when he feels her other hand land softly on his forehead. She smiles down at him.

"You would not stop fighting in your sleep." She says by way of explanation. "Welcome back comrade." She says in a terrible Russian accent.

"There are few other places to be." He answers in perfect German.

* * *

 **Translations:**

meine liebste = my dearest

медведь = bear


End file.
